


Mouth Shut, Mind Closed

by calciseptine



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assisted Suicide, Begging, Character Death, Drabble Collection, Implied Mpreg, Light BDSM, M/M, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-12
Updated: 2010-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Snarry drabbles, from the snarry100 community and the snarry_ldws challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mouth Shut, Mind Closed

**01:** The Next Great Adventure || prompt: beginnings

He dies.

"It had to be you," a recognizable voice, deep and commanding, drawls as the familiar but empty surroundings of Platform 9¾ emerge from the darkness. The crimson Hogwarts Express rolls into the station, and Severus Snape stands next to him, younger than Harry remembers, his face unlined and his hair shorter. "How horribly ironic."

The train screeches to a halt in front of them, waiting. Harry catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of the train car; he too is young again, as he was before he conquered Voldemort.

"Well," Snape sniffs. "It's time to go."

\--

**02:** More Than a Game to Him || prompt: snitch

He's seventeen and reckless, convinced that he's invincible. The raucous grin spread across his face as he weaves and dodges and feints with fierce skill and stupidity is highlighted by his scarlet robes and leather chaps; his gloved hand strains forward as the muscles in his thighs and biceps stretch and sweat. His cheeks flush pink and he sucks his lower lip into his mouth, teeth biting the flesh until it threatens to bleed. When his wretched fingers finally cage the golden Snitch and he spirals up towards the sky in triumph, body arched perfectly, Severus discreetly crosses his legs.

\--

**03:** The Waiting || prompt: games

In the lonely darkness of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Severus Snape and Harry Potter sit together at the long, wooden table in the kitchen. Their tea has grown cold and the leaves have sunk to the bottom as though trying to predict their futures. Harry stares at the coil of Severus' fingers around the white and blue china cup; Severus stares at the wisps of unruly black hair that curl against Harry's cheek. The only sounds between them are the moans of ghosts.

"Now?" Harry asks when the ancient grandfather clock knells the hour.

"Not yet," Severus replies, softly, heavily.

\--

**04:** It Had Already Begun || prompt: time turner

It is the spring of 1998. When Harry Potter dies, his soul separated from his body by the command of Avada Kedavra, the Golden Snitch in his pocket comes to life. The mechanism hidden within the metal shell tumbles into motion, the gears gaining momentum and whirling madly.

(Miles away, a thirty seven year old man labors desperately to save Severus Snape. Neither here nor there, Albus Dumbledore speaks of the past, the inevitable, and second chances.)

Slowly, the Snitch fulfills its duty, grinds to a halt, and quietly dies. Harry Potter lives, and it is the spring of 1978.

\--

**05:** Practice Makes Perfect || prompt: tongue

The dungeon stones are cold and hard on his knees and forearms, a counterpoint to the heat that roils through his body; his naked body is flushed pink, his shoulders tense, his back a wanton arch. He cannot swallow the moans when they come, wet and desperate sounds that embarrass him almost as his position—his splayed legs, his thigh muscles quivering, his ass high in the air and exposed to dark, calculating scrutiny.

"Please," he begs brokenly. "Oh, please, _please_—"

And the familiar pain and pleasure come, as a sharp tongue forms sharper words, and Severus snarls, "_Now_, Potter!"

\--

**06:** The Number One Rule (to Remember When Making a Wish) || prompt: Severus' 50th birthday

He tells his three young children one of the many stories of Beedle the Bard, checks for monsters in their closets and underneath their beds, and tucks them in with kisses and unconditional love. He changes into Muggle sweats, wool socks, and his newest Weasley sweater, then brushes his teeth and scrubs his face. His wife is drowsy-eyed, almost asleep, and tangled in the cotton sheets when he reaches out and tucks a strand of her long hair behind her ear. "I'm not tired," he tells her honestly, and she yawns in understanding. "Go to sleep; I'll be up later."

 

Downstairs, he pulls the small cake from its magically concealed hiding spot. It looks delicious, as it does every year; the creamy white frosting is spread expertly over the rich chocolate layers and a parade of fresh, pitted, dark red cherries circle the bottom. He carefully picks the plate off the counter, rummages for a fork in the drawer, sets both on the table, and then pours a glass of ice cold milk. An absent flick of his wand extinguishes the yellow light illuminating the kitchen while another sparks the lone candle in the center of the cake to life.

 

"You're supposed to make a wish," he tells the tiny flame. It burns steadily and pretends to ignore him. "It's a birthday wish, you know. That means you can have anything you want. Anything."

In the quiet, still house, as the wax beads and rolls like tears down the length of the candle, as he waits alone for midnight, the flame maintains its soft silence.

"Do you know what I wish for, every year?" he asks and the flame flickers in idle curiosity. "It's silly, really."

He pauses. The flame waits patiently.

Then, with shy, desperate hopelessness he whispers, "_You._"

 

The flame shudders underneath his breath as though it cannot bear the weight of his deepest, darkest, most hidden secret. He nearly laughs at its weakness, but settles for keeping it company until the clock chimes midnight.

"Happy Birthday," he tells the flame before he blows it out. The smoke stings his nose and curls into the air like a nest of snakes. "What did you wish for?"

In the moonlight, the remnants of smoke dissipate and there is no answer.

"That's alright, Severus," Harry tells the emptiness. "Because if you told me, it wouldn't come true—mine never does."

\--

**07:** thus from my lips by thine my sin is purged || prompt: established relationship

Before the end came—a strange, abrupt moment when the Dark Lord was vanquished and the Boy Who Lived had died—Severus Snape pressed the cold stone vial into his lover's outstretched hand.

(_He survives when he meant to die, left with a faded tattoo on his forearm, the starburst of a scar on his thigh, and the familiar body of another curled against his side._)

"What is it?" Harry had murmured, squinting myopically at the runes etched into the bottle. He was naked, tousled, and perfect in the glow of the low firelight and against the rumpled bedding.

Severus paused. He could say haughtily, 'It is a lexicon of answers to the multitudes of inane questions you have,' or he could sarcastically drawl, 'It is the final nail in your coffin'. Both were true. He replied instead, "A decision."

(_"You," he accuses the other man even as he desperately stitches their trembling hands together, palm kissing palm, "—are supposed to be dead, too."_)

Harry hummed, then, and said nothing as he leaned over the edge of the bed and slipped the heavy vial into the pocket of his discarded robes despite the curiosity Severus could see in the curl of his fingers and line of his mouth; it was an unspoken testimony to the parody they shared over these stolen years. Perhaps, if Severus was not so selfish, he would explain why he chose this path, or maybe he would say, 'You will not be alone.'

But Severus was silent.

"You know," Harry began mock-innocently after he righted his lean limbs and tucked them against Severus' warm body, his eyes summer green, hopeful, and achingly alive. "We still have time."

(_"I was," Harry whispers against Severus' mouth. "But I had to come back."_)

"Yes," Severus agreed. "We do."

\--

**08:** Motion In One Dimension || prompt: PWP

He's spread wide open, slick and wanting, when Severus' fingers give a final, vicious twist inside him. He keens; Severus withdraws.

"Energy that is stored in a physical system," Severus purrs into Harry's ear as he positions himself, the head of his swollen cock against Harry's twitching hole. "—as a result of position or configuration of the different components within the system is called what, Harry?"

"_Fuck_," Harry pants, and tries to push back onto Severus.

"No, Harry," Severus mocks gently, and sucks a kiss into the curve beneath Harry's ear. His hands keep Harry's hips firmly pressed along the line of his desk; the wooden edge that bites into his hipbones is high, and his football-toned thighs and calves tremble with the effort it takes to keep upright. His jeans, shoved impatiently down to his knees, prevent him from shifting to a more comfortable position. "Fuck is not the answer."

"It is when you've got me like this," Harry snaps, and futilely tries again to push against Severus' blunt head.

"The _answer_, Harry," Severus says, his hands staying Harry's movements, and nips a sharp reprimand into the exposed meat of Harry's shoulder. "Or have you forgotten why you're really here?"

"Fuck," Harry repeats in frustration. Of course he hasn't forgotten why he's _here_ instead of _somewhere else_, but the real reason had been lost the moment Severus scraped his teeth against Harry's jugular.

"Your physics grade is abysmal," Severus sneers, and as he teasingly increases the pressure of his cock against Harry, "The energy stored in physical system."

"P-potential," Harry hisses between his teeth. "Potential energy, damnit!"

"Good boy," Severus grunts and finally, _finally_, slides into him, burning all mentions of private physics tutoring away.

Then, between bruising thrusts, "And energy due to motion?"

Or maybe not.

\--

**09:** Cleopatra || prompt: dark fic

She whispers into his ear, _Are you sure?_

In the stale, still darkness of Spinner's End, he lays curled upon the bed. She is an undulating coil beside him, a regal queen across her divan. Her heat is no substitute for the warmth he once knew; her miniscule weight cannot anchor him the way he had once been tethered; her small, sleek body cannot compare to the scarred, lean one that he cherished before the life had been dinched from it by the idle, needle teeth of war.

He is sure.

_Yes,_ he hisses—and the asp kisses his throat.

\--

**10:** To Whom It May Concern || prompt: mpreg

Amid the dusty shelves filled with books and lectures forgotten at Spinner's End—_The Leviathan of Atlantis, The Inferno, Defensive Draughts Deconstructed_—there is a small sheet of paper. It is an innocuous slip of parchment that the Aurors will overlook and throw into a large box to be filed away and sorted out much later; it will be seven years before living hands touch it and reveal the spidery scrawl across it.

It is the last will and testimony of Severus Snape, dated a day before he died an Order of Merlin, First Class hero in the Second War.

The text will be short but filled with legal jargon and will be, unsurprisingly, airtight. It will leave all of Severus Snape's worldly possessions—namely, his books and the depreciated properties of Spinner's End and the old Prince manor—to his legal heir when said legal heir comes of age. The document will not name the heir because, as Severus Snape seems to posthumously sneer, he did not know the name of his unborn child.

The clerk reading the small piece of parchment will smile at Severus Snape's acerbic tone and will take a sip of his lukewarm Assam black tea. He will be in the process of swallowing when he notes a post script added, as though a fleeting afterthought, at the end:

_If Harry Potter should deem to name our child after his father, James Potter, his godfather, Sirius Black, or the former headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, this contract shall be null and void._

—and the clerk will spray the dark tea (with a drop of honey) all over Severus Snape's last will and testimony.

\--

**11:** Around the World In Eighty Months || prompt: post war

Amid the labyrinth of cobblestone alleyways that compose wizarding Hamburg, there is an apothecary wedged between a secondhand bookstore and a modest general supply shop. The apothecary has earned a decent reputation for quality despite having been in business for only a handful of years and boasts a menagerie of meticulously arranged potions ingredients, both common and exotic. It is run by a tall, ugly man with lank black hair, sallow skin, and a thickly scarred neck; he is an intensely private man who inspires much gossip but does little to feed it.

Every few days, when the apothecary owner sits down for breakfast, there is a tap-tap-tapping on the window of his apartment just above the store. He lets in a young, handsome owl carrying a postcard not unlike the impressive philately of postcards hoarded in the box underneath his bed; he absently strokes a long finger between the preening owl's tufted feather horns as he gives the image on the front a cursory glance—this time it is the skyline of the Binnenalster, a familiar sight in Hamburg.

Then he reads the short, near illegible message scrawled on the back: _Look outside._

So he does.

There, in the narrow cobblestone street below, stands a young, handsome man with unruly dark hair in a travel-worn cloak and Muggle jeans torn at the knees. The apothecary owner hasn't seen him in years, but time could never erase that quiet strength or dim the brightness in that soft smile. "I've seen the world," he calls up to the apothecary owner.

"And?" the older man prompts snappishly.

"It was alright," the younger man answers with a shrug. His shoulders are broad, now. Sure. "But I'm ready to come home."

The apothecary owner feigns exasperation and says, "I'll come let you in."

\--

**12:** Doctor Kevorkian || prompt: alternate reality

"They found his letter," Harry begins as Snape lights the end of a smashed cigarette. He takes a deep drag, holds it in his lungs, and then exhales steadily through his nose. The acrid smoke writhes against the white penitentiary walls.

"It is truly astonishing how long it takes law enforcement to find a piece of paper," Snape comments after a long strain of inhales and exhales, his nonchalant tone intentional. Harry flinches guiltily even though Snape couldn't have known he only opened the evidence from Albus' study last week—that, after hatefully thriving on a lie for nearly a year, he had just summoned the courage to face the truth.

"No matter," Snape murmurs as he flicks his dying cigarette. "Murder is murder, and I, still a sinner."

Harry manages not to embarrass himself with a blurted, "But he _asked_ you to!" In the end, no matter how badly Albus' hands shook, Snape was the one who supplied the poison, the one who held the vial to Albus' withered mouth.

So he says instead, "Yes."

Snape does not reply, but when he leans across the table to bite a kiss onto Harry's trembling lips, his mouth tastes like ash.

\--

**13:** The Echo || prompt: protective!Harry

He is crouched before his second son, a small eleven-year-old that looks as scared as Harry once was. Harry wants to say so many things, impart what lessons thirty-seven years of life have taught him, but he cannot cram a lifetime of bad decisions, mistakes, regrets, and triumphs into the sparse moments before the train departs.

What is he supposed to say, anyway? He could begin, "The hat wanted to sort me into Slytherin," but that isn't something he wants to share. He could parrot, "Sometimes, I think we sort too soon," but that isn't the right thing to say. He settles on a touch to Albus Severus' temple and reminds his son of Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape, the first a great man and the second the bravest man Harry has ever known.

(Harry's chest constricts here, as he remembers Snape dying on the dirty floor of the Shrieking Shack. He remembers Snape's fingers, vices in his shirt, and how he rasped "Look—at—me—" as his final request. He remembers the nightmares and the hollow wishes that followed, the rage of indignity and injustice, the absolute and bottomless longing. He remembers how Snape looked at him in those last moments, as though he could spend the rest of a longer life staring into the green of Harry's eyes and never look away. He remembers how he wished and wished and wished that Snape had survived so Harry could give him all he wanted and deserved, all his love—)

So Harry tells his son about the importance of choice, because that's the best advice he can offer. He tells him that the hat will listen to that choice and wonder suffuses Albus Severus' green eyes.

"Really?" he whispers reverently.

"It did for me," Harry replies.

\--

**14:** .120 || prompt: OOC!Snape

 

Of all the things Harry expects of Severus Snape, being a stupid drunk is not one of them.

It is witching hour when Harry, insomniac and tense, pushes the cotton sheets to the foot of the bed to creep down to the kitchen. The house of Number 12 Grimmauld Place is hollow and derelict, filled with the faint sounds of imagination. The kitchen table is covered with maps and strategies, half-finished cups of tea and a plate of stale biscuits. Sitting in a chair with a nearly empty bottle of amber scotch—it catches the low light from the fireplace and scatters like snatches of sunlight across the wooden, scoured floor—is Snape. His face is in his folded arms and his shoulders are shaking, jerking.

"Snape?" Harry whispers tentatively, touching the older man's shoulder with cautious fingers.

Snape's head snaps to the side quickly. The motion upsets his balance and, with a gracelessness that Harry has never associated with Snape's long limbs, Snape crumples to the floor, a puppet with its strings cut. Harry sucks in a breath, prepared for the familiar, hurtful barbs—instead, there's a deep laugh and a harsh smile stretched across Snape's face. The bottle of scotch, tipped on its side, leaks out; Snape's fingers slip across it.

"Snape?" Harry whispers again. He crouches before the other man, his chest vice-tight; he has always wondered what Snape's laugh would sound like. He just never thought it would be like this. "Are you alright?"

It takes a moment for Snape to focus on Harry's face, but when he does, he does it with his long, cool fingers and his mouth, as well as his eyes. "Harry," he murmurs against his lips, soft and reverent in a way Potter never was. "_Draco dormiens nunquam titillandun._"

Then he slumps, unconscious, leaving Harry to catch him.


End file.
